


Chaperon

by snarechan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action/Adventure, Implied Relationships, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarechan/pseuds/snarechan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Times in which babysitting should include hazard pay: exhibit A.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaperon

**Author's Note:**

> A long time ago I wondered how the goings-on of personified countries must come across for an outsider, and recent manga strips touching on the subject, however small, have only compounded my need to delve into the topic. I finally sat down and hashed out a story from their perspective, in particular one of Russia's citizens meeting America because I'm rusame trash and can't go five seconds without hinting about a relationship between them. 
> 
> After meeting [PunsBulletsAndPointyThings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PunsBulletsAndPointyThings/) I was able to have this story glanced over grammatically, but I didn't have a...I don't even know what to title them, Russian nitpicker? Consultant? To overview this story for me, so I fully expect errors and corrections from readers if anything stands out. Feel welcome to talk to me about anything and I'll see to fixing what I can.
> 
> _Updated: 6/10/16_

Olga was steadfast in maintaining her neutral facial expression. In contrast to her controlled demeanor were Olga's thoughts. _Years of militaristic training and countless Spetsnaz operations…can't possibly have led me to_ this _._

Her stint in the KGB had earned Olga several medals, leaving her heavily decorated. Some of those very honors she could not confess to possessing. Such time in the service had prepared her for anything. She was more than capable of carrying out her government's most dangerous requests.

None of which explained why Olga stood in the too-crowded Domodedovo International Airport. Businessmen, tourists, and staff rushed all around her as she was forced to stand by the American Airlines arrival gates. Furthermore, a suit was involved. Although Olga had convinced her superiors that pants be a major part of her attire. She did not mind skirts, but if she were forced to remain here amid the obnoxious volume of chatter without being able to conceal her weapon she was liable to cause an incident.

The governmental reforms had made her accustomed to being shuffled around and tasked with varying jobs, but a glorified taxi service was still… _new_. If anyone were to ask, which they never did, Olga would commit to the fact she hated what she'd been reduced to. Her fellow servicemen had gone off to become a part of the militsiya, raising in rank and reputation.

Olga had hoped that she, too, would still contribute her specialized abilities to the country. When she received a notice that she was being transferred to the capital and would be in the midst of the political elite, her hopes had been high. Olga's parents and siblings were so proud. They'd bragged to co-workers, friends, and the rest of the family about how their eldest was a leading member of Russia.

Instead, there was just a lot of driving. Driving from meetings, or dinners, or parties. Driving to homes and airports. Driving, driving, driving, never once even in a tank. If she were permitted to guard figureheads like their country’s leader she would feel satisfaction in sending word to her loved ones, but this was not so. Olga had such little interest in discussing how it was mostly wives or children she met, but never anyone of real influence.

No matter how bizarre the origins to such a circumstance may be this instance was bound to be equally dull as the rest. Unlike her previous assignments this one was personally hand delivered by Ivan Braginsky. She'd seen him around often, though it frustrated Olga that she couldn't place where half the time.

Life in Moscow must be making her soft to forget someone so distinct. He was _tall_  – taller than everyone she knew. He had a head of soft-looking hair that contrasted her darker coloring. However, it was his eyes that set her on edge. His stare was not _unkind_ , nor did their peculiar shade of purple unsettle her. A part of Olga, the instinctual part, just would not stop screaming whenever his gaze wandered to her at the Kremlin or in the offices.

Normally she relied on intuition for everything, but the difficulty in detecting why it reacted so strongly to a political aid direct from their President eluded Olga. Or she surmised that was his station. The man tended to be everywhere at once and meet with all forms of government officials daily. He did not come across as threatening, but then again, many said the same thing about her.

She had only spoken to him once when starting this new line of work. He'd been the individual sent to greet and orientate her, reciting high expectations based on her past history. He claimed to look _forward_ to the no-doubt beneficial and widespread contributions she would provide the Motherland. Since then Olga had spotted him on occasion, until a week ago. Matter of fact it was he whom approached her with instructions to escort an international diplomat.

_"It is very important that you meet with him," Ivan tells her. He passes over a simple manila folder, with details inside about the date, routes, and person of interest. Olga notices he wears gloves and a scarf even indoors, and wonders if Ivan gets sick often. A sad fate for someone in a country that so frequently ran cold, like theirs._

_"I understand." She glances through the material and absorbs most of it. Her charge is male, blond-haired and blue-eyed and young like some kind of celebrity. Already, Olga isn't sure she cares for him much. She hopes he won't talk endlessly like some foreigners did. She prefers her operations swift and silent._

_Ivan smiles at her, head tilting somewhat. "You have questions?"_

_It is a struggle to prevent her expression from pinching overly tight. Closing the folder and holding it to her front, she says, "I have driven many important figureheads." Her training keeps her from stumbling over the word 'important'._

_"It is just that…I do not recognize this one. Not from months past, nor on television or in the papers. Yet he is a part of the inner circle in the United States? If he is as significant as these documents imply, then why does he not have his own armed service? Surely we could spare some men from ours if that is the case."_

_"Ah." Ivan chuckles, but it isn't deep, like Olga envisions a man of his stature would exude. It is very light and airy. "This is a tad bit…personal? He is an old acquaintance of mine, and it is more that he is liable to become lost and stumble into trouble. Please see that he does not."_

_Babysitting duty!_ Olga seethed, fingers crumpling the sign that read 'Alfred F. Jones' in her precise handwriting. _Of all the humiliating and degrading and_ wasteful _use of my talents, this is what I am reduced to? Beneficial and widespread contributions, indeed!_

While her mood deteriorated, the flight she was waiting on finally arrived. It had been scheduled to land an hour ago, but was delayed due to rough weather. Relieved passengers exited into the terminal. Some looked somewhat ill and a few children were still visibly upset, but even if Olga hadn't been provided a photograph of the man she would have spotted Alfred amongst the crowd with little effort.

He was loud – in voice and in style. For such a political delegate his form of dress was rather casual. Of the two of them, Olga was the one overdressed. An ensemble consisting of beige slacks and a simple white, long-sleeved shirt was coupled with a bright sports cap and matching jacket. His tie was outlandish with its many stars and stripes.

Olga heard his entire conversation with the Indian woman and her three children. The poor mother must have been stuck next to him the entire flight because he was talking with her in a way that was both personable and familiar. Her kids, at least, did not seem to mind his attention.

Steeling herself, Olga decided to intervene and spare them regardless. Not that she wanted to be here or do this longer than was necessary. Using English, she shouted, "Mr. Jones! _Mr. Jones_ , your ride is waiting!"

At her voice he glanced up, smile somehow lengthening further, and waved in her direction. The man made his polite goodbyes and wished the family good luck on their trip home. As he jogged over to her his carry on, a shoulder bag that matched his hat and jacket, bounced loudly.

"Mr. Jones," she acknowledged again.

"Heya," he greeted her in return, still displaying a wealth of enthusiasm Olga couldn't quite understand. He glanced around and over her shoulders. "Is it just you?"

"Yes. Mr. Braginsky sends his apologies that he could not personally welcome you," Olga recited with practiced ease. Her accent was not as thick as most. She motioned for him to start walking ahead. "Unfortunately, certain circumstances have demanded his attention. He has instructed me to take you to your hotel until he can meet with you."

"Oh, well, that's fine. If he's busy," Alfred said, now looking a tad bemused. Misunderstanding her signal he took her hand in his and shook it. Olga adapted, folding her fingers and giving him her best handshake. She was accustomed to the physical test and had yet to be overpowered by anyone. Still, she was surprised when he took her grip in stride. Alfred didn't seem to notice it, in fact. "I gotta ask, but that flight took _forever._ Do you think we could stop for some food first?"

"Of course…" Olga suggested some of the nearest restaurants inside the airport, since they were agreeable to most tastes, as were a handful of places outside nearby.

But Alfred insisted, "Eh, I'm not that picky. You had to wait for my arrival, right? So you must be hungry, too. Wherever you want to eat will be fine with me."

"Sir, _please_ ," and she had to pause to gather her composure. Olga had dealt with military missions less overwhelming than this man, and she'd just met him. "You are our valued guest. I must insist that you choose."

"Hm… It's been awhile, but Ivan took me to a place he likes that's within driving distance. The…the um—" The name he listed off made her frown a little. Not at his atrocious mispronunciation, that she was used to, but the fact he was even familiar with such a place. It had closed down almost decades ago. "It wasn't as good as my food back home, but like I said, I ain't complaining. And I kind of recognized some of the names on the menu."

"Ah. I am sorry, but…you must pick another. We cannot go there any longer. Perhaps you are in the mood for soup?" she recommended, trying to usher him along. If Olga could just get him into the car she didn't care where they went, they would just be that much closer to her finishing this job.

"Sure, sure. It is getting kind of nippy this time of year. Soup would be good for that."

 _It is autumn_ , Olga thought, wondering where the American lived that even this time of year would be so unpleasant. She could only remember the states California and Florida because of their extreme heat and figured he must be from one of those. But surely Washington D.C. was not so different? Instead, she asked, "Do you have any more luggage or shall we proceed?"

"Just the one," Alfred said, shifting the bag over his shoulder as if it wasn't clear for her to see. Olga nodded once and kept directing him towards the doors where short-term parking was located. Their vehicle was black and modest; apparently Alfred had requested that no limousines be used on his behalf. 'Personable' Ivan had called him, though his tone of voice implied something else. Olga had considered it modest more than anything, until she finally understood what the other man meant. Her fears that Alfred would be a talker were true.

"So, I never caught your name," Alfred said when they reached the car. He waved off her assistance with the bag, opting to take it with him into the back seat. She closed the door after him and moved to the driver's side.

"My sincerest apologies. I am Olga Volkov, your personal chauffeur for the duration of your stay. Wherever you need to go, I will take you."

"Olga. _Ol_ ga. Ol-ly? Olly olly oxen free," he repeated, clicking his tongue as if needing to taste her name to test it out first. "Nah, doesn't seem I have any good nicknames for that one."

"Just…Olga is fine, Mr. Jones," she said, perhaps a little strained.

"Then it's only fair for you to call me Alfred, if you want."

"Of course, Mr. Jones." When she inclined her head to check the coast was clear for her to reverse, she noted he was leaning between the two front seats. His elbows formed a bridge with his arms to rest his chin. "Perhaps you would feel more comfortable buckled up?" When he just smiled and shrugged, Olga did not push the issue and opted to take it slow while exiting the airport.

Traffic was typical of this time of day, just heavy enough for her to need to concentrate, but nothing she wasn't unaccustomed to. Most drivers were smart enough to keep their distance when they saw the different indicators that they were a governmental vehicle. Thankfully so, since Alfred kept speaking into her ear.

"Gotta say, this is kind of neat. Ivan can be pretty stingy on my visits. Usually he makes me rent my own car and drive myself."

Olga noticed Alfred referred to her boss by first name. It could just be an American mannerism – again, he'd seemed rather cozy with the people he'd just met on the plane – but Ivan had never struck her as someone to keep close friends. Or, perhaps, he was someone who might have trouble doing so. If he was a mystery to _her_ then she couldn't imagine anyone else having it easier.

"Mr. Braginsky has not mentioned you before," she started. Olga realized how that may cause him to look poorly, so she added, "at least to me. But I am sure he takes everyone he knows into deep consideration."

"Oh yeah?" That amused lilt to his voice was back, though Olga could not fathom what he found so funny. "You think so?"

Once more it was hard not to remember her initial meeting with him – of his talk about her possible 'contributions'. Ivan had sounded so _certain_ that she would do great things, not just that she was capable of them. Her own prowess aside, historically there were many women that had shown successful careers in the military. Even if her battlefield was not out there anymore, but here in the city, she still wanted to do everything she could to protect her home. Somehow he seemed to understand all of that, understand _her._

She would not waste words explaining all of that to this stranger, though. Olga doubted that he truly cared that much for her answer, and simply said, "Yes. I do."

Alfred prepared to say something else, but what that was Olga would never know. Without warning an off-road vehicle swerved two lanes in front of them. She was forced to break. The diversion almost worked. Olga kept from overcompensating and avoided the second oncoming 4WD that tried to ram them broadside. The trunk of their car was still dinged and sent their smaller car spinning.

Her seatbelt cut deeper into her chest, but she never let go of the wheel. Olga tried the accelerator, but something must be caught on their undercarriage because the tires just spun out. Turning in her seat she asked, "Mr. Jones? Are you injured?" When he didn't reply fast enough she frantically disengaged her seatbelt and leaned towards the back. "Mr. Jones, I must insist that you respond! Mr. Jo—"

One of the 4WDs from before, probably the first one that cut her off, backed up and into their car. The angle was enough to push them a short distance, and then flip them over. Olga screamed as she was ejected from her seat and pressed against the roof. She was now close enough to the shattered windshield that she could feel the glass digging into her back.

"He … ga? He … y!" Someone was shouting. Olga couldn't distinguish the voice or the words. Not until the sudden stillness as their car was left alone. "Come on, we don't have time to be sitting around."

One minute she was pressed up against the roof, and then the next she's looking up at Alfred Jones. Perhaps she'd passed out for a second? He had a bleeding gash above one eye and his clothes were now in disarray. He was backlit by another wrecked vehicle and heavy smoke. People were running away and yelling, some in fear and others for loved ones.

Struggling to sit up, Olga discovered she was caught on something. Her leg was trapped. As Alfred tried to help her move she pushed back. "Nngh, no, I am stuck. You must leave. Go!"

"Where I come from, we don't leave a wounded soldier behind," Alfred said, reaching beyond her scope of vision. The sounds of metal and plastic groaning and then ultimately snapping prefaced her able to pop free. Crawling out under her own willpower, Olga slid from the wreckage in time to avoid a stray bullet. More guns were fired, the car the only buffer between their attackers and them.

They pressed close together, towards the center where the car was thickest. Olga had stashed a gun in the glove compartment, but it was out of reach to them. She only had her standard handgun hidden by her pantsuit, which she took out now. "Mr. Jones, please do not move. I will—"

To her abject confusion, Alfred now held what appeared to be a loaded weapon of his own. Unable to keep from openly staring, she asked, "Is…is that a revolver?" His appeared old, but definitely lethal.

"Yeah," he said, not denying his possession of an unsanctioned weapon, but neither was he forthcoming with an explanation. Olga wasn't fooled by his dazzling smile, dimples be damned, but there were more pressing matters to attend to. Lips tightening, she readied her gun and peeked over the side of the car to return fire. The tester shots were more to deter their attackers, wanting to refrain from hurting anyone. Thankfully most citizens had already fled the scene, choosing life rather than their material goods.

Ducking back down, Olga said, "There are four of them. Two per vehicle. Each are heavily armed. I suggest we retreat and find you a safer location until the authorities arrive."

Alfred cocked his own gun and leaned around the side, letting fire a single shot. A shout followed by curses alerted them to the successful contact. "Make it three. Kind of hard to fire a weapon with just one hand."

" _Mr. Jones_ —" she prepared to reprimand him, scandalized that he would actively take part in this. "Please refrain from making yourself a bigger target than you already are! Leave the matter of our defense to me."

"Spoilsport," Alfred said, but at least he listened.

Olga could hear movement as the men attacking them grew fed up and meant to spring on them. She motioned for Alfred to get behind her, wanting to act as his shield in case of more live fire. These men were foolish to approach and put themselves in range of her hand-to-hand; not that she would have allowed them to walk away unscathed otherwise. As soon as one of them came around the corner she demonstrated exactly why she was top of her unit in Systema.

The drills were so ingrained Olga moved without thought, letting her body flow into the familiar strikes. The first assailant was taken completely by surprise and disposed of with just two hits. He crumpled to the ground and made room for her to go after the man that followed in his wake. He'd seen what she could do and did not underestimate her, but his resistance was flimsy. Just as she finished him off with the breaking of his arm she identified the third and final attacker coming up from behind.

The group had intended to flank them. Two had taken the front and the last was no doubt to assist in their capture. He'd snuck through the small gap between the guard rails and their overturned vehicle. She was prepared to retaliate when Alfred shouted a warning, which came too late, but he'd been moving way before he cried out. His body slammed her out of the way of the assailant's spray of bullets.

Olga connected with the side of the car, winded beyond belief. The American did not appear muscular, but he'd struck her like what she imagined being run over by a freight train must feel like.

In the end Alfred was the one to dispose of the last assailant. He reached out and grabbed the man's gun, wrenching it from his hands and striking him in the temple with the butt of the weapon. He fainted dead away, with nary a groan as he connected bodily with the ground.

 _Idiot!_ Olga thought, it unclear whether she directed it towards the reckless American or herself for being overtaken like an amateur. She certainly hadn't been that sloppy when she served in the KGB, and such behavior could have cost more than just her life. In the process of pushing herself back upright, she saw a splotch of red that had her pause. Gasping in realization, she said, "You are bleeding!"

There was no way to tell how long he'd been suffering from the wound – or whether it was caused by the accident or one of their attackers. During the assault one of their bullets might have struck Alfred. Towards his hip was a large patch of blood. It was blatant against Alfred's once pristine, button down shirt. When he attempted to brush off her concern she made no qualms about slapping his hands away, her wadded up suit jacket in the other as she pressed it against the wounded area.

"Please remain calm, Mr. Jones. We must apply pressure until emergency squads arrive. I promise I will not let you bleed out! Just hold on a little longer, I think I hear them coming—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold your horses. It's not mine," he said. At her disbelieving stare he tugged up his shirt, it coming free from the hem of his pants and out from under her hold. Tentatively, she removed her jacket to inspect the patch of skin. True to his word there was no injury whatsoever, just a discoloration from the blood that had seeped through the fabric.

"I… But that is… I could swear…" English, and verbal language as a whole, failed her.

He took her by the arm and gave Olga a gentle squeeze. "Hey. Everything is going to be okay now, just like you said. You did really well. I can see why Ivan trusted you with me."

Disbelief that a no-name politician was the one to attempt placating _her_ of all people started to leave Olga fuming. The situation had been under her control until Alfred charged in, but at the mention of her superior's name she paled. Taking in the wrecked roads and upended cars, some leaking fuel everywhere, not to mention the four badly wounded men scattered in their vicinity… She was ordered to keep Alfred out of harm's way and instead they'd become directly embroiled in it.

"Sit," Olga muttered, her voice growing firmer as she returned Alfred's grip and forced him towards the nearest flat surface. "Sit, sit, _sit!_ No moving. Your eye at least needs attention." The only available spot turned out to be their wrecked vehicle. Ambulances and the local task force were now on the scene, but Olga still ducked inside their car to retrieve the first-aid kit.

"Mr. Braginsky is going to send me before a firing squad for this," Olga muttered, frantically digging around for some kind of antibacterial cream or bandages. She could already see his disappointment and fury at such a spectacle. Her record had been so _clean_ up until now; never any casualties or several car pile ups in rush hour traffic. Maybe the firing squad would be too kind for her – a hanging might be in order.

"Oh, I dun know. He doesn't look so mad to me."

Olga somehow managed to tense further as she turned in place. From the scurrying crowds of medical personnel and cleanup crews Ivan approached. Stepping out of one of the vehicles that'd appeared on the scene, he wore a beige jacket that was less heavy than some others he owned, with his customary gloves and scarf. He appeared unaffected by the chaos. Swallowing thickly, Olga at least managed to slap a suture bandage over Alfred's eye. There was little point now, the bleeding having stemmed, but there must be something she could do to lessen the lecture she was about to receive.

"Hello, Alfred," Ivan greeted.

 _Did he just address him by first name?_ Olga wondered, as Alfred offered up a tiny finger wave. Was he actually used to being called so personably—

"Hello yourself, Big Guy. Quite the welcoming party you set up for me."

Olga remained quiet during the exchange, and both men seemed content to forget she was there. Ivan stepped a little closer, removing a glove on one hand. She'd never seen him without them, and now that she got a good glance at his palm it looked roughened. There was even a tiny scar on the thumb and thick calluses across the knuckles. With the bared hand he reached out and nudged aside some of the blond hair to better reveal the cut above Alfred's eye.

"Yes, that was more excitement than expected. I have been dealing with those troublemakers for quite some time. These radical factions are very feisty in this age, nothing like the old days – and very determined to harm defenseless diplomats. But oh, now that we have some members in our custody I am thinking they will not be trouble for much longer."

"Heh, yeah, that's convenient." Alfred smiled, eyes shifting towards her. "Good thing you gave me Olga, just in case."

"She is very capable of anything, even keeping the likes of _you_ out of trouble."

For a moment Olga was speechless. Half this conversation went unsaid, and what little she did understand Olga wasn't sure she needed to know. That, and hearing that _faith_ again… Clearing her throat, she said, "Sir, I _assure you_ , Mr. Jones was never in any sort of real harm. But perhaps it would be wise that he be treated by one of the doctors?"

"Nonsense," Ivan said, returning his glove to its proper place. "Nothing that a good meal cannot cure. Is that right?"

Alfred's stomach gave an answering growl. He didn't even have the capacity to seem abashed. "That's right! Do you think we can swing by a hamburger place? I know you've got to have one around here somewhere. _Everyone_ does."

"I may know of just such a place." Turning full to face her, he resumed his Russian when he asked, "If you would, please?" Ivan indicated the car he'd exited.

She was sore, and tired, and confused – but mostly, she was a Russian compatriot, so she leapt at the chance to be of service. "Yes, of course." No one stopped them as they retrieved Alfred's carry on, revolver visibly stashed in the waistband of his pants, and entered the new government issued car. Nor did they intervene when she ignited the engine and continued their journey towards the heart of Moscow.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, she had to adjust it to her height. In doing so she saw the wreckage they were leaving behind. Ivan and Alfred were seated closely together in the backseat, heads blocking some of the view.

 _Babysitting duty_ , she mused, remembering back to her initial assessment of her assignment. Yes, she decided, this was definitely something she was qualified for. Perhaps, it would even be worth writing home about.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [writing blog on Tumblr](http://snaurus.tumblr.com/) for more content!


End file.
